by Howard Pyle
The Governor of Maryland was not lightly to be denied. So it was settled that Peggy was to go, and the saddle-bags were filled on one side with her clothing, since, even in the wilderness, a maid must needs carry her bit of finery, and in the other side her aunt’s hospitable care had stored away an ample supply of bread and meat and wine, with other eatables and drinkables to be heated in the ashes of the noonday fire.
When the two donkeys stood at the gate and Mistress Peggy and the lame serving-woman were mounted there was no happier or prouder maid in the province than Margaret Neville. Giles Brent joined the procession at the edge of the village. He was seated on Governor Calvert’s horse, one of the few in the colony, and his large frame with its red-lined cloak showed well on the big black Flemish steed.
Behind him walked three men. Yes, Peggy distinctly counted three, though Governor Brent had named only two. There was Councillor Neale, with his heavy staff and big foreign boots, and Captain Cornwaleys, brave in his military uniform with gilt trimmings; but who was the third? Not — surely not — Oh, no, nothing could be more unlikely! — and yet — Yes, there was no doubt of it; however the thing had come about, the man who walked between them was Romney Huntoon. If there had been any doubt in her mind at the first glance, it was set at rest as they drew nearer, for the young man stepped forward close to the little brown donkey, and sweeping off his hat laid bare his dark curls, and then looked up at Peggy as though he had been the devoutest of Catholics, and she his patron saint.
Now, I will not deny that Peggy Neville was good to look at; but never did any one bear less resemblance to a saint than she as she sat perched upon her mottled brown and gray donkey, her saucy, smiling face peeping out from its scarlet hood, her cheeks as red as the wool covering around them, and her brown eyes sparkling with fun and health and girlish glee. Her first care was to give this youth fully to understand that it was with no thought of him she had joined this expedition. She took pains, therefore, to throw an extra amount of surprise into her tone as she exclaimed, —
“Master Huntoon! — and pray how happens it that you are acting as escort to the Governor of Maryland? Or is it but out of courtesy that you are walking with us as far as the gates of St. Mary’s?”
“As far and farther,” answered the young man, proudly.
“Not to St. Gabriel’s!”
“And why not, pray? Did you think you were the only person honored with an invitation? May not I too be a bidden guest?”
“But you were to sail for the York River to-morrow or next day.”
“Ay,” answered Huntoon, with some embarrassment, “I was; but there have arisen certain complications with which I chanced to be connected, and I have received a request which was as near a command as befitted the message of a Governor of one province to the subject of another, asking me to tarry for a few days yet and to set out with him this morning for St. Gabriel’s. It was not till an hour ago,” he added, “that I learned what cause I should have to give thanks for my assent.”
“Come, come, young people!” called Giles Brent; “my horse has more sense than you, for he is pawing the ground and eager to be off. Since we can move but at a snail’s pace along the trail, which is harder than ever to keep, with the snow on it, we’d best waste no time. I will ride in front to prospect, and the women shall follow. Do you, Huntoon, walk by Mistress Neville’s bridle, and Neale and Cornwaleys shall follow as a rear guard keeping a sharp look-out, for wolves and other wild beasts are grown desperate with hunger in this cold weather, and may be met when least expected.”
The little procession took up its line of march along the narrow street and out at the gate which gave upon the road leading across country. As they wound up a hill that lay behind the town Peggy turned in her saddle for a last look at the huddle of log cabins. Hers was one of those tender hearts that can cling to bare walls, so they be hung with associations.
The scene on which the girl’s eyes rested was fair enough in itself to need no associations to give it interest. From the height she could look down upon the broad, placid river lying in a series of loops like little lakes. For a distance of eight miles it stretched away blue as the sky above it till it merged itself in the dimmer gray of the Potomac. Across the river rose gently swelling hills, and there in the foreground like a giant sentinel loomed the great mulberry tree which had witnessed Calvert’s dealings with the natives, which bore on its trunk placard and proclamation, and, in short, served most of the purposes of a town hall.
Peggy looked long over the enchanting prospect, then letting her eyes fall upon the hamlet of St. Mary’s she scanned the little group of houses, the great cross in the centre, the smoke curling up from the mud chimneys, the blue reach of the stream at the foot of the bluff. Suddenly she gave an exclamation of amazement.
“Why, where is Captain Ingle’s ship?” she asked, turning from one to another of her companions.
No one answered.
“I saw it last evening at sunset,” she went on. “I am sure of it, for I went down to the wharf with our serving-man to buy grain, and I asked Captain Ingle when he would be off, and he said, ‘Not for some time;’ and that when he went he would fire a salute of five guns in my honor.”
“’Tis like his insolence,” muttered Huntoon between his teeth.
“Yes, but how is it that he is gone? Surely, you who are about the village so much must have heard something of the matter.”
The mysterious silence continued a moment longer. Then Giles Brent said repressively, —
“Master Ingle sailed last night.”
“Oh, so you do know all about it,” cried the irrepressible Peggy.
“I know nothing to speak of,” answered Brent, in so significant a tone that even Peggy could find courage for no rejoinder, but turned to Huntoon and bade him walk a little faster, or the donkey would tread upon his heels.
Huntoon strode on as perfectly happy as is often given to mortals to be in this sadly mixed world. There is an elation in the solitude of a wilderness at any time, a sense of freedom, of room for soul-expansion, and there is a beauty in a snow-clad forest that summer cannot match. The shadows lay in long blue patches on the snow, the pine trees held a load of white on their wide-spreading branches, each clump of green capped with glittering frost. The gaunt branches of oak and maple etched themselves against the blue of the morning sky. Everything in nature was radiant. Was it likely that the heart of the young man who walked with the rein over his arm was less jubilant than the scene around him?
One thing only troubled him.
He could think of nothing to say.
At last he saw a bunch of scarlet berries peeping out of the snow at the roots of a great pine tree. He stepped aside and picked them. When he came back he handed them to Peggy.
“What are these for?” she asked.
“I thought you might wear them.”
“So I do not look well enough as I am?”
“I said not so.”
“No, but you thought I could look better, and so I could not have been perfect in your eyes.”
“They hang offerings on the neck of the statue of the Madonna. It is not that she may look better; but I suppose it brings her nearer to see her wearing their gifts, be they never so humble.”
“You are quite a courtier, Master Huntoon,” Peggy answered with a nervous laugh; “you are thrown away upon these colonial wilds and should betake yourself to Whitehall. The King would doubtless lend a favorable ear to your silver tongue.”
“Alas!” sighed Romney, in the folly of his youth, “what care I what the King might say, if the Queen will not listen to me?”
What further softness he might have ventured on, no man knoweth, for there is no setting limits to the weakness of lovers; but his speech was interrupted by the crack of the fowling-piece from behind, and looking back they saw Cornwaleys stooping to pick up a brace of quail which his gun had just brought down; and which he straightway tossed over the saddle of Anne, the serving-wo
man, bidding her pick them as she rode.
The sun climbed higher and higher till its genial warmth began to make itself felt. The icicles let fall drop after drop of water, slowly trickling themselves away. The snow-banks melted into gurgling streams, which ran along on the surface till they sank noiseless into the softened ground. The air, balmy with the scent of pine trees and mild with the bracing mildness of dry midwinter, pulsated in the perpendicular rays of the noonday sunlight. “Come, friends,” called Giles Brent, reining in his horse and turning in his saddle to await the arrival of the rest of his party, who could by no means keep the pace he set, “I know not how it is with the rest of you, but one man here hath an appetite which tells him that the dinner hour is come.”
“Here is another!” cried Cornwaleys.
“Ay, and a third,” came from Neale.
“How say you, Huntoon, has your walk given you a zest for an hour’s rest and a bite of good victual?”
“I?” stammered Huntoon. “Why, to say truth, I thought we had but just set out.”
At this Brent laughed and cast a meaning glance at Peggy, who colored redder than the bunch of berries she had tucked into the front of her cloak.
“There may be a magic in the bridle-rein of beauty to ward off hunger and fatigue from him who touches it; but the rest of us poor mortals have felt the pangs of both; so, as we are come to a clearing, with two logs convenient for a seat, I counsel that we make a halt and build a fire wherewith to test Anne’s skill as a cook.”
Peggy slipped from her saddle and opening the bags brought out the bread and meat and wine. Cornwaleys spitted the birds upon his sword, and Anne twirled them before the fire, seasoning them as they cooked. The men sat on the logs, and Peggy laughed and sang and poured forth a flood of mirth and gaiety which beguiled the anxious men about her from all thought of care and worriment, while she herself was like a meadow lark intoxicated with its own music.
“Is it all your fancy painted — this ride through the forest?” asked Governor Brent, smiling as he seated himself beside Peggy.
“I should say so! — all and more — the very happiest day I have ever known. I feel as if I were a snow-bird picking up crumbs here in the desert. I think I will never live in a house more. I would we were all going back together,” added Peggy, after a little pause.
“But going back you will have my sister Margaret, and she is worth us all.”
“Shall I not be afraid of her?”
“No-o,” answered Brent, conscious that he had known times when he was. Then, loyal to kinship, he continued, “Margaret is a fine fellow. She lives out the motto of Lord Baltimore, ‘Deeds are masculine, words feminine.’”
“Oh, I am sure I should be afraid with her!”
“No, you will not. Margaret’s words have both weight and wit, and her wit bites sometimes; but it is like a blooded dog and will not hurt a friend. How often I have wished for her trenchant common-sense when we were sitting round the council table and the men droning folly. If she came in it would be like a north wind clearing the air of dulness.”
“Ah, Huntoon is coming this way with a cup of sack. I like that youth. There is meat in his discourse.”
“Oh — ay — veal,” answered Peggy, scornfully.
“Hush, you naughty girl! He will hear you. Here, Huntoon. Pass the cup. Drink all of you to the happiest day Mistress Peggy has ever known, and may there be many more like them!”
When the noonday meal was ended, the party took up the line of march once more, but this time Neale walked by the governor’s saddle.
“It is an ugly business — a very ugly business,” Brent began.
“Ay, it could scarce have turned out worse.”
“So many heard the row that the tale can scarce be suppressed, and Ellyson is full of wrath over what he calls his wrongs.”
“We will advise together yonder at St. Gabriel’s. Neville is ever rich in suggestions, and this young Virginian behind us has a ready wit of his own. We must bring the matter before the Council; but they will be sure to see it in the same light as we.”
“They may, and they may not,” answered Neale. “The chief business of councils from the beginning of the world has been to find a scapegoat and then to send him out, as the Hebrews did theirs, loaded with the sins of the nation.”
“Nay, take it not so to heart! You did but as I should have done in your place, and if the Council resent the escape of Ingle and fear to involve themselves in the King’s displeasure they must deal with me as well as you. We are both in the same boat. Faith,” Brent added as they came to a swampy place, “it would be well to have an actual boat if we come to many spots like this. It should be one of the first pieces of work done in the province to lay a road where a Christian may travel without losing his way or wading to his chin. Climb up behind my saddle, and my horse shall save your heels.”
Neale did as he was bid, and they waited to see how the rest would manage. Anne was transferred to a seat behind Mistress Neville, and Huntoon and Cornwaleys mounted the maid’s donkey. Their legs were so long and the donkey’s so short that they were forced to hold their knees half-way to their chins, and cut so sorry a figure that the others who were safely across stood shaking their sides with laughter.
Cornwaleys, being over thirty and a man of sense, joined in the laughter; but Romney Huntoon, being twenty and in love, turned sulky, and walked along in would-be dignified silence in his old place at Peggy’s bridle. As he grew solemn she grew lively, and entertained him with rambling tales of her wild doings before ever she came out of England, how she had ridden a horse after all the grooms had given him up, how she had stolen away from home and gone down the lane at midnight to get her future told by an old gypsy woman.
In spite of himself Huntoon’s interest kindled.
“These gypsy horoscopes have something uncannily like truth in them,” he said. “Tell me, did the old crone predict aught about — about your marriage?”
“Oh, ay, to be sure. What gypsy would ever get her palm crossed with silver twice by a maiden, if she failed to promise her a husband?”
“So she described him—”
“To the length of his shoe-string and the color of his doublet.”
“Hm! What said she of his looks?”
Peggy cast a malicious look at the dark curls and the clean lip and chin beside her.
“Oh, she set him off to the top of my satisfaction! He was to be like a Viking of old, with fair hair and mustachios like that—” and Peggy twirled her fingers off at either side of her dimples.
“I am glad to know the manner of man you do prefer,” said Romney, stiffly, and they went on in silence for several minutes, and Mistress Peggy quite at her ease nevertheless. Finally she broke the pause, saying, “Do you remember what night the last was?”
“Surely I do, for I noted it on Governor Brent’s order for Ingle’s arrest posted on the tavern door. ’Twas the twentieth of January.”
“Ay, the twentieth; and what night was that?”
“In truth I know not. Being no Papist I keep scant account of Saints’ days.”
“Nor I either for the most part; but this was a very particular night indeed.” Then, with great impressiveness, “It was the Eve of St. Agnes.”
“And what of that?”
“Why, ’tis on that night every maid may see her future husband, — that is, if she have the wit to go about it the right way.”
“And did you go about it the right way?”
Peggy nodded.
“And after what fashion was that?”
“Why, after dusk I went to my chamber as usual, and I took off my garter — you must, you know, or the charm will not work. It must be the left garter too, so I took it, and knit three knots in it, and then with my eyes shut I said the rhyme—”
“What rhyme?”
“Stupid! You don’t seem to know anything. Why, this rhyme, of course, —
“‘I knit this knot, this knot I knit
To know the thing I know not yet —
That I may see
The man that shall my husband be,
Not in his best or worst array
But what he weareth every day,
That I to-morrow may him ken
From among all other men.’”
“And then did you see him?”
“No, not yet. After I had said the charm I lay down and folded my hands like St. Agnes, and sure enough as soon as I fell asleep a young man appeared before me. There he stood, as large as life and as clear as day.”
“Yes,” said Romney, eagerly; “and what like was he?”
“Why, there’s the queer thing,” answered Peggy, “his mouth and his curls and his odd-shaped nose were the image of thine.”
“What is wrong with my nose? I have always thought well of it—”
“Oh, ’tis a proper nose enough. No doubt an excellent and serviceable nose for all practical purposes; but for pure beauty it might be better without the little hump in the middle of the bridge, and with the nostrils set closer — but no matter! such as it is, the vision bore it too, and the eyes were like also and the brows. There was the whole face and figure, so like that any seeing them would have cried out, ‘’Tis Master Huntoon to the life.’”
“Peggy!”
“But—”
“Nay, no buts—”
“I must, for ’tis the strangest of all — but his doublet was as like as two peas to the one Captain Cornwaleys wears this morning, and his figure was the captain’s too, height and all. Now, what is a poor maid to do under such distracting confusions?”
“Mistress Neville, you are a coquette.”
Peggy raised her eyebrows till they arched like a rainbow.
“I’d rather be a tailor and make coats for the moon than fit myself to your humors.”
“Every man knows best what trade fits him; and now you have spoken of it, the goose doth seem your proper symbol.